Paying The Playboy's Price. Emilie Rose

      “Only because each year Andrea, Holly and I do something to celebrate our birthdays. And yes, this year we each came into our trust funds, but since we all have well-paying careers, we don’t really need the money. We decided to donate a portion of the money to a charitable cause, and the auction to support the disabled children’s camp seemed as admirable a choice as any. Have you heard about the boat Dean Yachts has offered to design, build and donate to the cause?”

      Octavia Jenkins waved the diversion aside. “I’ll do a feature on that later. I want to talk about you.” Leaning forward, she grinned mischievously and tilted her head conspiratorially toward Juliana. “You’re a banker and he’s a biker. You can’t get much more different than that. Taking a walk on the wild side never entered into your plans?”

      Color rushed to Juliana’s cheeks. She darted a panicked glance in Rex’s direction, and then ducked her head and fussed with the silverware beside her plate. “No. That wasn’t it at all.”

      Well, I’ll be damned. If her guilty expression hadn’t clued him in, then her rushed, breathless answer was a dead giveaway. The beautiful bean counter was lying through her perfect white teeth. And for some crazy reason, the prospect of Juliana getting wild with him turned him on like nobody’s business.

      Forget it, farm boy. Too risky.

      “If you say so.” Octavia closed her notebook and stood. “Well, that’s all the questions I have tonight. I’ll see you next week.”

      Rex rose. His mother had managed to drill some manners into his thick skull. He sat back down after the reporter had left and studied Juliana until she squirmed in her seat. She just didn’t seem the type to rebel. And wasn’t thirty a little old to get started on rebellion?

      She bolted to her feet. “I should go, too.”

      Determined to get the truth out of her one way or another, Rex followed her outside, keeping pace beside her so he wouldn’t be distracted by the sweet curve of her rear. The moon had yet to rise, but he could see well enough in the streetlights to know he was beginning to like the fit of her riding britches a little too much.

      “Why did you buy my package?” he asked as they neared her car.

      She turned on the cobblestone sidewalk. “I told you.”

      “You’re off the record now. No reporter in sight. Let’s have the truth, Juliana. Why me?”

      Her face flushed with more than indignation. She shifted uneasily. “I beg your pardon? Are you calling me a liar?”

      “Admit it. You fed that reporter a load of manure.”

      If she stood any straighter, her spine would snap. “Mr. Tanner—”

      “Rex,” he corrected and moved closer. Without the killer heels, the top of her head barely reached his chin.

      She retreated, bumping into the lamppost behind her. Milky light streamed over her, painting ribbons of silver in her dark hair. A soft breeze ruffled the strands around her face. She tipped her head back and her lips parted on a shaky breath, and her pink tongue slipped out to wet them.

      “Rex, then. Why would you suspect I had an ulterior motive for bidding on you?” Her damp lips and breathless tone hit him like the business end of a cattle prod, sending a jolt of electricity through him.

      “You turned ten shades of red when the reporter asked if you wanted to take a walk on the wild side. Looked guilty as hell to me.”

      Her lashes fluttered and her gaze fell. “I did not.”

      “Did too.” He’d learned from experience that the only way to deal with a problem was to confront it. Running didn’t work. Ignoring it wouldn’t either. He propped one arm on the post above her head and leaned in until only inches separated their faces. “Wanting to see if Nashville’s bad boy can live up to his hell-raising reputation?”

      “Of course not,” she said too quickly. But her gaze shifted to his mouth and her breath puffed against his chin in shallow bursts. The tight points of her breasts pushed at her blouse.

      She wanted him, and damned if the feeling wasn’t mutual. He swallowed the sudden flood of moisture in his mouth and cursed the unwelcome response drumrolling through his veins. Kissing the bank owner’s daughter would be a big mistake, but part of him wanted to forget common sense, taste her red lips and feel her slender length against him.

      Go for it, his awakening libido urged. Then maybe the simmering sexual awareness between them would die a natural death and they could get on with the lessons. She wasn’t his type and he sure wasn’t hers.

      He cupped her jaw with his right hand. The warm velvety texture of her skin surprised him. Tempted him. His fingertips teased her earlobe, her nape, and then closed around the cool satin of her hair. He tugged, tilting back her head and lifting her lips closer to his.

      “Is this what you want, Juliana?” He cupped her jodhpur-covered bottom, pulling her closer, and lowered his head. In his hypersensitive state, her swiftly indrawn breath sounded as loud as a jet engine. Her fingers spread over his belly and dug into his waist, starting a fire he wasn’t sure he could put out. But she didn’t push him away. Her lashes drifted down and his lids grew heavy in response. His mouth hovered above hers, close enough that he could taste her sweet breath, and then sanity slapped him upside the head.

      What in the hell are you doing, Tanner?

      He hesitated, examining her flushed face, parted lips and the dark fan of her long lashes against her cheeks. Damn. The reporter had nailed Juliana’s motive. The banking heiress was using him. And if he gave in to the urge to kiss her—hell, the urge to take her right here against the lamppost—he’d be using her, too.

      Been there. Done that. Not going back.

      He didn’t want to be that selfish bastard again, and risking any kind of involvement with a woman whose family could pull the rug out from under his business could be career suicide. Because when the relationship ended—and it would end—there’d be hell to pay.

      Swallowing a sobering lungful of air, he battled the need twisting through him like a tornado and shoved himself away. A sexy protest emerged from Juliana’s mouth, but he ignored it.

      “If a walk on the wild side is what you’re after, Ms. Alden, find another sucker.” Turning on his heel, he left temptation—and certain disaster—behind.

      

      Thursday evening arrived long before Juliana could get a handle on her reaction to the near-miss kiss and the sting of Rex’s rejection. But she wouldn’t let a little discomfiture derail her agenda.

      “Plan B. If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed,” she muttered as she turned her car into the stable’s driveway.

      Over the past two and a half days, she’d launched a full-scale fact-finding mission. By her calculations, she was as prepared for today’s lesson as she possibly could be. She’d memorized the magazines recommended by her twenty- and thirty-something coworkers, bought clothing deemed appropriate by said magazines for casual dates with a hot guy and learned everything between the covers of the Department of Motor Vehicles booklet Rex had given her. To top it off, on her lunch hour yesterday she’d visited the local motorcycle dealership. The salesman had fitted her with the proper safety gear to the tune of several hundred dollars, and she’d spent a good part of last night curled up with a book—the Harley owner’s manual.

      She spotted Rex standing beside his motorcycle. The bees in her stomach buzzed into flight. Once again, he wore jeans and a Renegade T-shirt. His closed countenance brought heat to her cheeks. He hadn’t forgotten their last encounter or her panting eagerness. Neither had she.

      If he could disturb her that much without actually kissing her, then what kind of havoc could he wreak if—when—their lips connected? She trembled in her new biker boots at the possibility of exploring further.